Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

to the house and approached the front door.
    “Gunshots,” said Singer. “That’s the initial report we got. The woman across the street heard the first shot, then a long pause, and then a second shot. She called nine-one-one. First officer on the scene was there in seven minutes. Ambulance was called two minutes later.”
    Moore remembered the woman across the street, staring at him through her window.
    “I read the neighbor’s statement,” said Moore. “She said she didn’t see anyone come out the front door of the house.”
    “That’s right. Just heard the two shots. She got out of bed after the first one, looked out the window. Then, maybe five minutes later, she heard the second gunshot.”
    Five minutes, thought Moore. What accounted for the gap?
    On the screen, the camera entered the front door and was now just inside the house. Moore saw a closet, the door opened to reveal a few coats on hangers, an umbrella, a vacuum cleaner. The view shifted now, sweeping around to show the living room. On the coffee table next to the couch sat two drinking glasses, one of them still containing what looked like beer.
    “Cordell invited him inside,” said Singer. “They had a few drinks. She went to the bathroom, came back, finished her beer. Within an hour the Rohypnol took effect.”
    The couch was peach-colored, with a subtle floral design woven into the fabric. Moore did not see Catherine as a floral-fabric kind of woman, but there it was. Flowers on the curtains, on the cushions in the end chair. Color. In Savannah, she had lived with lots of color. He imagined her sitting on that couch with Andrew Capra, listening sympathetically to his concerns about work, as the Rohypnol slowly passed from her stomach into her bloodstream. As the drug’s molecules swirled their way toward her brain. As Capra’s voice began to fade away.
    They were moving into the kitchen now, the camera making a sweep of the house, recording every room as they’d found it at two o’clock on that Saturday morning. In the kitchen sink sat a single water glass.
    Suddenly Moore leaned forward. “That glass—you have DNA analysis on the saliva?”
    “Why would we?”
    “You don’t know who drank from it?”
    “There were only two people in the house when the first officer responded. Capra and Cordell.”
    “Two glasses were on the coffee table. Who drank from this third glass?”
    “Hell, it could’ve been in that kitchen sink all day. It was not relevant to the situation we found.”
    The cameraman finished his sweep of the kitchen and now turned up the hallway.
    Moore grabbed the remote control and pressed Rewind. He backed up the tape to the beginning of the kitchen segment.
    “What?” said Singer.
    Moore didn’t answer. He leaned closer, watching the images play once again on the screen. The refrigerator, dotted with bright magnets in the shapes of fruits. The flour and sugar canisters on the kitchen counter. The sink, with the single water glass. Then the camera swept past the kitchen door, toward the hallway.
    Moore hit Rewind again.
    “What are you looking at?” Singer asked.
    The tape was back at the water glass. The camera started its pan toward the hallway. Moore hit Pause. “This,” he said. “The kitchen door. Where does it lead?”
    “Uh—the backyard. Opens to a lawn.”
    “And what’s beyond that backyard?”
    “Adjoining yard. Another row of houses.”
    “Did you talk to the owner of that adjoining yard? Did he or she hear the gunshots?”
    “What difference does it make?”
    Moore rose and went to the monitor. “The kitchen door,” he said, tapping on the screen. “There’s a chain. It isn’t fastened.”
    Singer paused. “But the door’s locked. See the position of the knob button?”
    “Right. It’s the kind of button you can push on your way out, locking the door behind you.”
    “And your point is?”
    “Why would she push that button but not fasten the chain? People who lock up for the night do it all at once. They press in the button, slide in the chain. She left out that second step.”
    “Maybe she just forgot.”
    “There’d been three women murdered in Savannah. She was worried enough to keep a gun under her bed. I don’t think she’d forget.” He looked at Singer. “Maybe someone walked
out
that kitchen door.”
    “There were only two people in that house. Cordell and Capra.”
    Moore considered what he should say next. Whether he had more to gain or lose if he was